


The Tenth Sample

by ChicxulubZero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied ASD, No major whumpage, Psychological Trauma, mostly comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicxulubZero/pseuds/ChicxulubZero
Summary: Sherlock has been missing. No one is sure how long. Now he's been found, but where was he and what happened to him?Takes place between S1 and S2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be surprised if this story hasn't already been done at least two dozen times, but oh well. Contains digitally created fanart, just because.

The young man lying on the pavement outside the entrance to the A&E didn't look like a vagrant or homeless person. He hadn't just wandered up to the doors, either. A security guard monitoring the three CCTV cameras that covered the entire front of the building had seen someone leave him there, although whoever it was had taken pains to keep his face and any other identifying evidence hidden from view. He'd worn non-descript clothing that could be had at any Tesco, and his head and face had been obscured by the hood of the black sweatshirt he'd been wearing. No vehicle had been observed.

Dr. Yousef Jawadi was the physician on call in the A&E. He'd grabbed his jacket and gone out to investigate. The man's eyes were closed but when he called out to him, they opened. He seemed to focus on Jawadi's voice rather than his face, although at a glance, his eyes appeared normal. He was clean, and his hair, though long, was neatly styled. His clothing looked expensive, but even though it was damp and not at all warm, he was wearing only trousers and a shirt – no jacket or coat. Of course, Dr. Jawadi knew that general appearances often didn't mean much if drugs were involved. The wealthy could often afford the best junk while still managing to look quite respectable. At least until they ended up in hospital or worse, the morgue.

He squatted down so that he was closer to eye-level with the young man. "Hello, there. I'm Doctor Jawadi. Who might you be?" Getting a closer look at his face, he looked vaguely familiar, but Jawadi couldn't place where he'd seen him before.

The young man blinked a couple of times, still not looking directly at him, and didn't answer.

"Do you have any identification?" he asked.

The young man understood the request. He felt his trouser pockets, looking for a wallet or phone, probably, but finding nothing, he shook his head slightly.

Jawadi reached out and put a hand on the young man's upper arm, checking for any possible injuries, but he violently pulled away, slapping the doctor's hand off with a determined swat. His eyes stayed focused straight ahead. _Blind_ , Jawadi thought. Even odder that he had been left there, alone.

"Okay, then," Jawadi said softly. "No touching. Can you stand up?"

A nod.

"All right, let's stand up, then?"

The young man complied, although with effort. He was clearly in pain, even though there were no visible injuries.

"Do you know where you are?"

A slight shake of the head. _No._

"This is the A&E. I'm a doctor. I'm going to put my arm out, and you can put your hand on it. We'll go inside where it's warm and dry. How does that sound?"

There was no verbal response, but the young man's hand reached out and Jawadi slid his arm underneath it. They walked into the A&E, into an examination cubicle. "There's a trolley here," Jawadi explained, lowering his arm so that the other man could feel the padding. "Can you sit up here?"

No response at all to that one, but the young man – now officially a patient since he'd more or less walked into the A&E – climbed up onto the trolley. His shoulders slumped and his head hung forward. He looked exhausted, defeated even, but Jawadi still saw no obvious signs of injury. There was no blood and no bruising on the young man's hands or face. Of course, that didn't mean there weren't substantial injuries hidden by his clothing.

Normally, someone not in dire need of immediate care might face a long wait in the A&E, but Jawadi's instincts told him it wouldn't be a good idea to leave this particular patient unattended. "Can you remove your shirt?" he asked.

No response. Jawadi sighed. He wasn't the best person to deal with someone with mental health issues. He was relieved when one of the A&E nurses arrived, until he saw who it was, a CNA named Jen Bailey who was going through some kind of drama with her boyfriend. She'd just spent a good fifteen minutes crying and yelling into her phone before he'd had to tell her to cut it short and get on with her duties. Her eyes were puffy and she all but had steam coming out of her ears. Her behavior was unprofessional and, in his opinion, unacceptable, but here she was, with a patient who clearly had some problems of his own. He didn't want to leave the two of them alone there, but the A&E was busy, and he truly was needed elsewhere.

"Go easy with him," he cautioned. "I think he's visually impaired, and he's . . . "

"I think I know my job, doctor," she all but spat in his face.

"Don't take your personal problems out on the patients," he warned her, "and don't speak to me in that tone again." Still having doubts, he went to check on the construction worker who'd had an unfortunate encounter with a power saw.

He had a brief moment to appreciate the fact that someone had thought to bring the construction worker's severed pinky along in a bag of ice when he was called back. Bailey was exiting the cubicle throwing her hands up in disgust. "What happened?" he asked her.

Apparently, she'd requested (although Jawadi expected it was more of a demand) that the patient provide a urine sample and it had ended with him throwing the specimen cup at her, thankfully empty. It probably hadn't helped that she'd told the young man she knew he was ‘on something.'

"He's either higher than a kite or a bloody freakin' psycho," she said angrily. "Won't do anything I asked, and when I tried to remove his shirt he acted like I'd come at him with a flame thrower. He needs sectioning or something. I'm done here."

"You're done when I say you're done," Jawadi scowled. He really didn't like Bailey, any more than she liked him. "Go get Doctor Millham." He wanted a psychiatric consult for this one.

=====

John Watson knew better than to ignore the mysterious text on his phone, despite the fact that it contained no information other than the name of a hospital 50 miles away and the initials SH. "Fuck," he whispered to himself. What had his flat mate got himself into this time? The text wasn't from Sherlock. It was from an "unknown caller." So, Mycroft then.

He pulled on his coat and dashed down the stairs. As he was about to hail a cab, a familiar car with a familiar face at the wheel pulled up to the kerb. Lestrade.

"You got a text, too?"

The DI nodded. The mysterious sudden contact had been especially worrisome for John since he'd been trying to find Sherlock all morning. He'd returned to the flat after two days with Harry (about all he could stand) to find that Sherlock wasn't there. That had been around 9 am. Sherlock was not a morning person – he rarely ventured out that early, unless Greg had called him. John had just assumed that had been the case, so he'd gone out and picked up some groceries, and then come back and asked Mrs. Hudson if she'd seen Sherlock. According to her, he'd been there the morning John had left, but then he had left a note saying he might not be back for a day or two. In hindsight, she did find that a bit odd, since Sherlock rarely visited anyone, or went anywhere out of the ordinary, so she couldn't imagine what he'd be doing away for that long. But when all was said and done, she reminded John that Sherlock was a big boy and she wasn't his housekeeper _or_ his baby sitter.

After he hadn't replied to any of John's texts, John had contacted Lestrade to see if Sherlock was with him and didn't know what to think when Greg said he hadn't seen him. It was possible that Sherlock might have been gone for as long as 3 days. John had texted Mycroft, who also claimed not to know where Sherlock was, but minutes later, he and Greg had received that mysterious text.

None of it sounded good.


	2. Chapter 2

The privacy blinds on the observation window of the exam cubicle had been opened so they could see the strange patient found outside on the pavement. The door was slightly ajar so they would hear in case he decided to say anything, but so far, he had been completely silent. Earlier, he had been pacing the cubicle – carefully, because he seemed to have very little useful vision. Now he was sitting on the trolley, his knees drawn up to his chest, still except for his fingers which were moving rapidly in an intertwining motion that was both complex yet seemingly without purpose.

Doctors Martin Millham and Yusef Jawadi and Nurse Bailey watched from the hallway. Thus far, the intervention of the medical staff had proved upsetting. Both doctors were concerned that some type of drug use was involved, but Millham also had other opinions.

"So odd that he was just _left_ here all alone like that," Millham said.

"I think we should consider this may be a domestic situation that's got out of hand," Jawadi replied.

" _That_ has a spouse?" Nurse Bailey mocked.

Jawadi glared at her. "I was thinking more of a parent or some other carer who for whatever reason isn't coping, but whatever you do, let's not have any compassion."

That shut Bailey up, for the moment, at least.

"That looks to me like it could be stimming," Millham stated.

"I think it's BSL," Bailey offered.

Millham raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"His fingers. It looks like he's spelling something in sign."

Although he didn't appreciate a CNA offering a diagnostic opinion, Millham asked her, "Do you know what he's saying?"

Bailey shrugged. "It's just letters, and he's not holding his hands in the correct position, so it's hard to tell. . . . Looks like an O, a C, then either a K or a P, an S or an A, an H or a U . . . . No idea. He's just babbling."

"Perhaps we should get an interpreter," Jawadi said.

Millham agreed. "He may not even need medical attention – that may be a normal condition for him. I still think that might be stimming ."

"Surely someone is missing him if that's the case. He seems reasonably well looked after."

That much was true. If this was the entirety of the social interaction this patient was capable of, it was doubtful he'd be able to manage on his own.

"We do need to make sure he hasn't just taken something, though. Somehow, we'll need to get a blood and urine sample from him."

"I've called Scrivens – I know she's a pediatric nurse, but she's pretty much an expert on dealing with autistic kids and patients who. . ."

"Hello!" Two men walked up to them, one in a suit, and the other in more casual attire, khaki slacks and a jumper over a plaid shirt. It was the former who had spoken, and now he was holding out a badge. "DI Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard," he introduced himself. "This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson," he introduced the other man. "I believe you have a patient here who . . . "

But before he could finish, the patient they had been observing jumped from the trolley. He headed straight for the door, which he didn't realize was only partially open, and ran right into it with a gut-wrenching thud. Undaunted, he pushed it out of his way.

"JOHN!" he spoke the first words anyone had heard from him.

"Sherlock! What . . . how . . . "

"Take me home, John. Now!"

Watson like everyone else, seemed to notice that the patient wasn't actually looking at him. He waved a hand in front of his face, where it was batted away with obvious irritation.

"Home. Now," the patient repeated.

Watson did not appear the least bit affected by the demanding tone. "What's wrong with your eyes, Sherlock? Tell me. "

"I don't know. I don't care. Take. Me. _HOME_."

"Not when you obviously need medical attention."

"You're a doctor, John. You _are_ ‘medical attention'," the patient hissed. "Now take me _HOME!"_

Lestrade intervened. "Has he done anything to warrant him being detained?"

"No," Millham replied, "but obviously something has happened to him. Is it possibly drug-related?"

John's gut clenched, and he didn't answer immediately, so Sherlock did.

"I'm _not_ high."

"What's wrong with your eyes?" Lestrade asked him. 

Sherlock hung his head. "I don't know."

Jawadi spoke up, "It's possible he's suffered a head injury or had a stroke. He should have an MRI and possibly . . . "

"I did _not_ have a stroke. That's absurd. I would know if I did. I want to leave and you cannot force me to stay." Suddenly, their patient was Mister Chatty. He was also correct, at least about being forced to stay against his will.

"All right, then," Watson said, gently placing an arm on the patient's shoulder. He flinched, but then seemed to settle a bit.

"We'll go home?" he said tentatively.

"I can't guarantee that, Sherlock, but will you let me examine you?" He looked at the other two doctors who nodded that they were fine with this.

The patient acquiesced, knowing he was outnumbered. "All right. But just you."

John led Sherlock back into the examination cubicle. Lestrade provided the A&E staff with what information he could, including Sherlock's name. Hopefully, no one would think to take advantage of that knowledge and call the tabloids, but if that happened, he'd be there to make damn sure they had no access.

The exam cubicle was small, but Lestrade entered anyway, and blocked the door so that John could get on with the business of examining Sherlock without interference. He also felt it wise that he be there if John found evidence of where Sherlock had been and how he'd come to be in his present state.

Sherlock couldn't see, and that was extremely concerning, but when John shined a pen light into his eyes, he reacted by trying to turn his head away. He gently turned Sherlock's head back to face him. "Easy now . . . I'm just having a look at your eyes. Can you tell me what you _can_ see?"

"Fog," Sherlock answered.

"Fog?" John frowned.

"Yes, as if everything is in a dense, grey fog."

"But you can see light and shadows?"

Sherlock nodded, which caused John to have to refocus the light. "Hold still, now," he said gently.

Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable with the light in his eyes, but he held still. His pupils reacted normally, but the view of the retinas was oddly distorted. It didn't appear to be a problem with the eyes themselves, but with the pen light. John couldn't imagine what the issue might be. Maybe it was time to buy a new light. No matter what, though, an examination by a qualified ophthalmologist was absolutely imperative.

He had Sherlock perform a series of physical tasks that would reveal indications of a stroke – raising his arms, smiling (which Sherlock, of course, initially refused to do because there was nothing to smile about), and sticking out his tongue (ditto, because it was ridiculous). His speech sounded normal, no slurring or hesitancy. Other than his eyes, he showed no signs of neurological impairment.

"Take off your shirt," John said. Sherlock attempted to comply, but let out a gasp of pain when he tried to pull the shirt off his shoulders. John helped him with it, noting that the shirt was clean. So was Sherlock, for that matter. He didn't appear to have been in a fight, or injured in some other way. John hated to do it, but he examined Sherlock's arms for needle tracks. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh, but asked cautiously, "Did I do something stupid?"

John was relieved to find nothing there, nothing recent, anyway. "Doesn't look like it," he assured Sherlock.

John clipped a pulse oximeter to Sherlock's right index finger. The readings were completely normal, but he got a stethoscope, anyway. Sherlock's heart and lungs sounded fine, but when he moved the stethoscope to the side of his chest, John noticed a small blemish of some kind on Sherlock's side. It almost looked like a cherry angioma, but it was fairly large – he guessed about 6 or 7 millimeters. Also, Sherlock was rather young to have one of those – they usually didn't appear until the late 40s or so. On closer examination, he noted that the blemish was a depression.  Cherry angiomas were usually raised or even with the surrounding skin. He touched it lightly and Sherlock flinched again and gave a small grunt of discomfort. "Is that tender?" John asked.

"What?"

"This . . . lesion here. How long have you had this?"

Sherlock tried to contort his head, but it wasn't in a location that was visible without a mirror even if his vision wasn't impaired. "Obviously, I don't know since I can't _see_ what you are referring to," he said petulantly.

As John looked more closely, he found several more, including one on his chest that Sherlock could easily touch. He seemed baffled by it. Clearly, it hadn't been there before. All of the lesions were painfully sensitive.

He had Sherlock stand and drop his trousers. There were more on his left leg, although nothing on his right. He had him slide down the waistband of his pants – there were others on his right hip and lower abdomen. Sherlock refused to pull his pants all the way down, instead slapping John's hands away and informing him, "There's one down there, too. I can feel it."

John didn't force the issue, instead, he reached up and pushed back Sherlock's hair. There was nothing on his face or forehead, although a bruise was forming where he'd run into the door. When he lifted the hair at the back of his neck, though, he found two more of the lesions, one on each side of his skull behind his ears. Those were not quite as large as the others, but they were clearly the same type.

He was baffled. They didn't look like insect bites. There was no swelling, and the surrounding skin appeared healthy.

What was most worrisome was that Sherlock was obviously in more pain that the small injuries – if that's what they were- warranted. He was trying to hide it, but he wasn't standing up straight, and when John had him sit back on the trolley, he did so with obvious effort even though he was tall enough that he should have been able to do it easily. Sitting there, he folded his arms across his middle and doubled over, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Sherlock?" John asked. He got no answer, but he recognized the signs of abdominal cramping – he'd seen enough of it in Afghanistan. "Are you . . . do you need the . . . ?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It just _hurts_." He tried to take a deep breath, but that apparently caused him pain, also.

"Where is the pain, specifically?"

"Everywhere," Sherlock whispered.

"How bad? One to ten?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Maybe a five. It's bearable, but I wouldn't say no to pain meds, which you would give me if you weren't such a rubbish doctor."

John ignored the insult and spoke as calmly, but as firmly as possible. "I'm going to order an MRI. You're obviously not okay."

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't argue with him.

He took Sherlock's blood pressure, which was very low, although not dangerously so. His temperature was a perfect 37. There was a blood glucose testing kit among the available medical supplies and he removed a lancet and warned Sherlock before he proceeded. "Just a small scratch . . . I'm going to test your blood sugar." 

Sherlock allowed John to grasp his middle finger, but he jumped when the lancet pierced the skin. "Fuck, John! That _hurt_!"

"Fingers are full of nerve endings . . . I must have got one. Sorry about that."

"No you're not," Sherlock huffed and then sucked on the offended finger after John had taken the sample. "Everyone _enjoys_ annoying me."

The reading on the meter was 4.2. The low end of normal, but still normal. He suspected it had been awhile since Sherlock had eaten. He often forgot about food when he was distracted by something else.

"Sherlock," John pressed on gently, "what happened to you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but John recognized the not-so-subtle signs of distress – rapid eye blinking, the slight but obvious way his hands shook. "Sherlock?"

"I don't know, John. What I remember doesn't make sense."

John took both of Sherlock's hands in his own to steady them. "Tell me. Tell me what you remember."

Sherlock inhaled deeply – or tried to – breathing obviously hurt even though his lungs sounded clear. "A room . . . clean, antiseptic almost. Bright lights, while I could still see. No sounds. No odors. None at all . . . and . . ." his voice softened to a whisper, "I remember pain."

"Pain? Someone intentionally hurt you?"

He nodded. "Yes, I think so."

Lestrade cleared his throat before very carefully suggesting what John was thinking. "Sherlock . . . erm . . . do we need to get a rape kit?"

"What?!" Sherlock shook his head adamantly. "NO! No . . . _that_ didn't happen."

Lestrade nodded at John, who was still holding Sherlock's hands. John knew what the DI wanted him to do. He casually, but carefully checked Sherlock's wrists and fingernails. There was no evidence he'd been forcibly restrained, no defensive wounds, and no evidence he'd had to put up a fight. He looked at Lestrade and shook his head.

"You're sure?" Lestrade had to be certain.

"Of course I'm sure, Grant. Don't be an idiot."

John and Greg both smiled in spite of themselves. "DI Lestrade will stay with you," John said. "I'll go see about the MRI."

John met Dr. Jawadi at the nurse's station, and was bought up to date on exactly what had been going on.

"He appeared to be nonverbal, at first," Jawadi explained, "He had no ID on him – no wallet, no phone, nothing. He didn't want to be touched, and I'm afraid we made some mistaken conclusions about his mental state. It would be helpful if we could get some blood and urine. If this is drugs, we need to know what we're dealing with."

John wanted to argue that it wasn't drugs . . . that Sherlock wasn't doing _that_ , again. But he had to admit, he just couldn't be sure. "I'll see what I can do. He trusts me." _For now, at least._


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade wasn't the least bit uncomfortable staying with Sherlock in the A&E exam cubicle. This made the third time, and the other two times, Sherlock had been in much worse shape. He thought about pressing him for more answers, but he doubted he'd get any more out of him than John Watson had. He picked up the hospital gown that had been left there and placed it on Sherlock's lap. "Best get into this, mate. You don't want to take a chill."

"I don't want it," Sherlock said, but the response was automatic. It was the kind of thing he always said when someone suggested something upsetting. Sherlock could be difficult at the best of times. Greg took the gown, and unfolded it. "Put your arms out so I can slide it on," he said. Sherlock complied. He slipped the gown over his arms and then tied it at the back. "Might as well get your trousers off, too. They're going to ask you to, anyway."

Sherlock sighed deeply, but slid off the trolley and removed his shoes, then slid the trousers off, so he had on nothing but his pants, socks and the gown.

"All right, back up with you," Greg led him back to the trolley. There was a folded blanket at the foot. He gently took Sherlock's shoulders. "Lie down. You'll be more comfortable." Sherlock complied and Greg tossed the blanket over him. Sherlock pulled it close around himself. He didn't appear to be cold, but the blanket was somehow comforting. Sherlock stayed down for a few brief seconds before he suddenly sat upright, wincing with pain as he did so, still clutching the blanket.

"Find my phone!" he ordered.

"Sherlock, I have no idea where your phone is. You didn't have anything with you when you got here."

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Gary. I know you have it tracked, thank you _Mycroft_ ," he said the last with especial vehemence.

Greg blushed slightly. It was true – there was an MI6 tracking app on his phone that was keyed to both Sherlock's phone and John Watson's. Neither man was supposed to know about it. Nevertheless, he mentally kicked himself for not having already thought of that. Sherlock's phone might still be wherever Sherlock had been. "Found it . . ." he said shortly. "But all I have is GPS coordinates . . . 51.18 N, 2.18 W . . . that's . . ."

"Near Warminster," Sherlock muttered

Greg checked and discovered Sherlock was correct. "I'll see if the local constable will go look for it . . . might be difficult to locate, though." The exact coordinates appeared to be a wooded area. _Like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack._

Sherlock nodded. It was very likely the battery would be depleted before it was located, but it still might reveal evidence. He lay back down on the trolley. "Why can't I remember anything?" he said, more to himself than to Greg.

"You may have been drugged." Lestrade actually thought that probability was very likely. "Did they do a tox screen?"

Sherlock shook his head. "They wanted a urine sample. Tried, couldn't."

"Dehydrated?"

"No. She was _watching_ me."

Lestrade chuckled softly at that. He didn't really blame Sherlock if that was actually what had happened and not just Sherlock's imagination.

A nurse with a name tag that said "Bailey" came in with a plastic wristband. She didn't bother to introduce herself or say anything and, without warning, she reached under Sherlock's blanket and seized his wrist. It startled him because he didn't see her coming at him. "Settle down," she said impatiently. "It's just a wrist band. No one's hurting you." Her tone was curt, she was obviously in a bad mood when she came in. Sherlock didn't help matters by trying to pull away from her rough handling. "Oh for heaven's sake!" she scolded, grabbing his wrist so tightly that Sherlock winced.

"Oy! Take it easy!" Lestrade warned her. He'd definitely be speaking to someone about her.

As she clamped the band in place, Sherlock told her, "You're correct that your fiancé broke it off because he does not find you attractive. Also, your dog has been off his feed because he has cancer. You should find a vet to have him put down because it's terminal. I suggest you contact the RSPCA about a replacement."

The woman gasped audibly. "What? How . . . who . . . "

"I deduce things. It's what I do," Sherlock scoffed and pulled his hand back under the blanket.

The nurse abruptly left, although oddly, she seemed more annoyed than flustered by Sherlock's observations.

"Sherlock, that was a bit harsh, mate, even for you," Greg said, although he was vaguely relieved to see Sherlock being his usual abrasive self, if just for a moment.

"It was a lie. Her fiancé has realized he's gay and her dog swallowed her panty hose. They'll all be fine. She was the one who wanted the urine sample. She's _mean_. I don't like her."

Lestrade smiled, resisting the urge to patronizingly stroke Sherlock's hair. "Yes, she was rather unpleasant, wasn't she?" he laughed softly. Not everyone had the patience to deal with Sherlock, so there might have been more to his interaction with Nurse Bailey that he was telling. Still, her bedside manner clearly needed some work.

=====

John discovered that the MRI had already been scheduled. They would image Sherlock's entire body, with and without a contrast agent. It would take more than an hour during which Sherlock would be expected to hold one position for the entire time. Sherlock, unfortunately, was pretty much constantly _moving_ , unless he was sound asleep, and sometimes even then. John suspected the reason for that was neurological rather than behavioral – it was just the way Sherlock _was_. Being encased in a noisy metal tube for over an hour lying perfectly still was just too much to expect from him. It would be torture, and it simply wasn't going to happen.

"He'll need to be sedated for the procedure," he told Jawadi.

The doctor nodded. "Dr. Millham has already ordered it. We suspected there might be a problem."

"I think it would be best if I started the IV, if there's no objection?"

There wasn't, so he obtained the necessary equipment and returned to the exam cubicle. Somehow, Lestrade had managed to get Sherlock to put on a hospital gown and lie down on the trolley. He looked miserable.

"Are you still having pain?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I feel as though I've been beaten from the inside."

"I'm going to start an IV. It will have something that should help a bit, along with some fluids. We really do need a urine sample."

Sherlock calmly allowed John to look for a suitable vein. He quickly located a good one on the top of Sherlock's right wrist. For whatever reason, Sherlock had apparently avoided his hands during his previous experiences with ‘something stupid.' Even though the vein was undamaged, it did take some effort to raise it, and he noted that the skin turgor was poor due to dehydration. Eventually, he managed to obtain a blood sample and then prepared to start a glucose drip with an accompanying dose of paracetamol hoping the latter would ease Sherlock's discomfort somewhat. After the IV catheter was secured, he placed Sherlock's hand in a positioning splint that would keep him from bending his wrist and reduce the chance of him accidentally dislodging the IV. Naturally, the first thing Sherlock did was start to examine it with the fingers of his other hand, fingering the Velcro fasteners and gingerly touching the spot where the catheter entered his hand.

John gently took the splinted hand and then carefully wrapped everything loosely in elastic tape. "There . . . that's not going anywhere," he admired his handiwork. Sherlock immediately began to finger the bandage. His curiosity was boundless, even more so when fueled by nervous energy. John grabbed his free hand away from the splint. "Leave it alone, or I'll splint them both."

"How long will this take?" Sherlock sighed.

"The MRI is scheduled in about 45 minutes"

"Then we can go home?"

John shook his head, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. "There might be more tests, Sherlock. An ophthalmologist has to see what's going on with your eyes, if nothing else." He dared to hope that whatever trauma Sherlock's vision had suffered was not permanent. The thought that it might be was difficult to contemplate.


	4. Chapter 4

An attendant arrived 30 minutes later to move Sherlock to the imaging lab. John had to make good on his threat to splint both of his hands so he'd stop bothering the IV. He needed the distraction, John knew - Sherlock just always had to be doing _something_ \- but he didn't want to have to reinsert the catheter.

Shortly after arriving at the lab, they were greeted by woman carrying a basket of what looked like elongated teddy bears. Dr. Jawadi introduced her. "This is nurse Scrivens. I'm afraid we called her in when we thought we might need special assistance with this patient." He sounded apologetic. "She has extensive experience with . . . exceptional individuals."

Lestrade snorted, although only loud enough that John noticed.

John nodded in Sherlock's direction. He didn't want to offer up too many details, but said softly, "I rather think it appropriate that you stay."

Scrivens nodded that she understood, but looked somewhat flustered as she held up the teddy bears. "I was expecting someone younger," she laughed softly.

"He's can't see at the moment," John explained. "He won't notice." _Not right away, anyway._ He now realized that the bears were the bolsters that would be used to position Sherlock for the MRI.

Scrivens warned Sherlock she was going to touch him, and then placed her fingers on his splinted left hand, very gently so as to not startle him. She checked his hospital wristband. "Sherlock Holmes?" she frowned, and gave John a questioning look, causing both John and Lestrade to realize that perhaps it had been a mistake to use Sherlock's real name.

But to her credit, Scrivens' next comment was directed at Sherlock. "All right, Mr. Holmes, do you know what we are going to do here?"

Sherlock sounded bored as he launched into a detailed explanation, "The machine will generate a magnetic field that will result in the hydrogen protons in my body aligning to it, then specific radio frequencies will attempt to disrupt the alignment and the resultant energy release will provide data that can be interpreted to reveal tissue type, density and subsequently any anomalies present." He ended by catching his breath and admitting somewhat timidly, "But I've not done this before."

Scrivens smiled at John, which convinced him she both knew who Sherlock was, and that he possibly had some issues that she was the best person to deal with. "It's going to be fine. Won't hurt a bit, and will be over before you know it," she reassured. She had Sherlock scoot from his trolley onto the MRI platform, and saw he was as comfortable as possible.

"Shall I tell you about you?" Sherlock asked her and without giving her a chance to answer, he began, "You have been married to the same man for twenty-five years. You have two adult children – twins. The girl is at uni, the boy is in the military. You have four cats, one entirely black, and a longhair that you recently adopted thinking she was spayed but she is not, so, soon, you will have eight cats. Your husband gifted you with Kia Soul for your anniversary, and you haven't the heart to tell him that you think it looks like a toaster and you would rather have had a trip to Australia."

Scrivens laughed, clearly more delighted than alarmed as people usually were by Sherlock's perceptions. "That is astonishingly accurate, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"So, I'm right?"

"Well, the _boy_ is at uni and the _girl_ is in the Navy, but other than that . . ."

"Always something," Sherlock huffed.

"And oh dear . . . the cat. . . "

"You can always return her," Sherlock said absently. "But you won't."

"I'd ask you to tell me how you do that," Scrivens said, "but I suppose it's a trade secret."

"It's observation," Sherlock stated. "Your voice has a slightly ‘used' timbre – suggesting you are middle aged. I heard your wedding ring click against the rails of the trolley, so, married, apparently happily so, or no ring. I have heard your voice before – you were talking to another nurse who asked if you had a photo of the ‘new addition' to your family and you identified the subjects in the photo as ‘Mittens,' ‘Whiskers,' ‘Midnight,' and ‘Princess,' – presumably cat names and not grandchildren. Most cats named Midnight are black – which is not very original, by the way. I assume Princess is a long-haired cat, since you appear not to have noticed she's gaining weight, however, you remarked that she keeps trying to make a bed in your closet, which is where you will find the kittens, average domestic cat litter size being four."

"And my kids? And the car?" she smiled.

"Your name is ‘Scrivens' – good English name, but not common. I heard others talking about you. They are envious of the car by the way, and it really does have a fairly decent rating despite trying unsuccessfully to masquerade as a Land Rover. I'm afraid a rather petty remark was made regarding how you could afford a new car with one of your twins at uni. It was mentioned the other was in the military. It's all just _listening_. People _hear_ , but most of them _don't listen_."

Scrivens was laughing now. "And Australia?"

"Oh, that was just a guess . . . and I suspect at this point, John Watson is making a face because he thinks I'm showing off."

Scrivens looked at John, who was, in fact, rubbing his forehead to forestall the headache he felt coming on.

She laughed at that, too. "You truly are amazing, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes. I know."

She winked at John, and then, getting back to business, she produced a pair of headphones and let Sherlock know she was placing them over his ears. "I'm going to play a recording of how the machine sounds. It's very noisy, but nothing to be worried about. It won't hurt at all."

When she hit a button on a remote, Sherlock visibly flinched. She allowed the noise to continue for a few seconds before she removed the headphones. "Everything all right?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded.

She talked him through each step as she placed the leads for various monitors that were necessary because he would be sedated. She then placed a nasal cannula since he'd be on supplemental oxygen. He tried to touch everything.

"Doctor . . . Watson is it?" Yes, she definitely knew who they were, John could tell, ". . . is going to give you a sedative now."

John explained, "You'll go into the machine, then when you come out, we are going to inject the contrast agent and do it all over again. The agent will be injected into the IV, but some people can taste it, so don't be alarmed if you suddenly do."

The warning was just a precaution. With luck, Sherlock would not care about any of it, even if he didn't go completely under.

John moved in close to administer the sedative. It was quick-acting, but had a very short recovery time, usually without side effects. He'd start with a minimal dose, and hoped that Sherlock would be fully alert, or close to it, not long after he was done with the procedure. He pushed Sherlock's hair away from his face. The bruise was glaringly obvious against Sherlock's pale skin. "Relax, now. You'll be fine," he assured him.

The medication soon began taking effect, but despite his fingers being secured by the splints, Sherlock began to examine the ridiculous Teddy bear bolsters with whatever touch he could manage. They were very soft, not harsh and starchy like the regular bolsters. Scrivens had explained they usually worked better with children who had sensory issues. She seemed to sense that Sherlock would appreciate that, even though he wasn't as young as her usual patients, so she'd gone ahead and used them.

"These pillows have faces . . ." Sherlock muttered groggily. "Why are they face pillows?" He held his splinted hands in the air, squinting as if he hoped to see them. "Why are my hands so fat?"

"Shhhh . . ." John said gently, stroking his hair again. "It's all fine."

Although he was becoming increasing less determined as the sedative made its way through his system, Sherlock kept moving his hands to feel what was around him. Nurse Scrivens patiently returned them to their proper position each time, until he finally began to settle.

"Let's go home now, John," Sherlock mumbled. "No face pillows. I know they're looking at me . . . it's disturbing . . ."

Nurse Scrivens laughed softly and produced the headphones again. "I'm putting the headphones back on," she told Sherlock. "They will have music, so you can listen to that instead of the machine."

"Mmmmm . . . " Sherlock muttered, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Scrivens looked up at John. "I'm afraid it's just some Disney stuff," she apologized.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He wasn't completely unconscious, but he clearly didn't have a care in the world at that moment.

Lestrade had his phone out and had been recording the whole thing. He'd done that sort of thing before, and John's instinct the first time he'd seen it had been to demand that he respect Sherlock's privacy. The irony, as it turned out, was that Sherlock found those videos as hilariously entertaining as Lestrade did, especially when they alarmed and/or annoyed Mycroft. He did wonder how Sherlock would react when he saw himself surrounded by teddy bears, softly singing along to what John thought was _Let it Go_ although he couldn't imagine where on Earth Sherlock had learned the lyrics to _that_.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock was finally quiet and still. Scrivens quickly strapped on Velcro restraints so he was completely immobilized. "All set," she told the technician.

Lestrade spoke to John. "I understand there was CCTV footage of him being dropped off here. I'm going to go check with Security on that while this gets done."

"Good idea. I don't imagine it will show much, though. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there is a ‘malfunction' and it has all disappeared."

"You think Mycroft is somehow involved?" Lestrade asked.

"You don't?" John replied. It was obvious, to both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

The MRI procedure itself was uneventful, although John noticed the technician frowning several times. "What is it?" he finally asked.

The technician shook his head. "I'm not qualified to interpret these scans," he explained. "But I'm seeing some shit here I've never seen before."

John looked at the images being produced by the machine, but unfortunately, he wasn't trained to interpret them either.

"When we're done here, I'll see about getting the results read as soon as possible. These . . ." he pointed to shadows on the computer screen, "are just plain freaky."

John realized with a sinking feeling that some of them were exactly where the red blemishes on Sherlock's body were. Others appeared to actually be _inside_ him.

"It's not cancer, is it?" he said concerned, although it was unlikely the technician would speculate on that even if he knew.

The technician shook his head. "It doesn't look like it, but . . . I'm not sure what it is. Maybe we'll get a bit more data with the contrast."

John was unnerved, but didn't offer an opinion – he had no idea what was going on. 

Lestrade returned just as they were finishing up.

Scrivens removed the restraints, then tapped Sherlock's cheek lightly. "Mr. Holmes? Sherlock? Can you hear me? Wake up now . . . we're all done."

Sherlock muttered something and then rolled onto his side, curling around one of the bolsters.

They had to get him back on the trolley, and it clearly wasn't going to happen with Sherlock's cooperation. He wasn't heavy, though, and the three of them moved him with little effort.

Scrivens met with some resistance when she attempted to recover the bolster he was still clinging to so that Sherlock would not be wheeled down the corridor looking like he was holding a teddy bear. Lestrade managed a couple of pictures before she succeeded. She attempted to rouse him again, but he was apparently not interested in waking up any time soon. It was just as well. His vitals were stable and he seemed comfortable and it didn't hurt that he looked deceptively angelic when he was asleep, so Scrivens wasn't motivated to disturb him.

John started another liter of IV fluids and thanked Nurse Scrivens for her kind attention.

She acknowledged him with a smile. "I'll try to stop by later and see how he's coming along," she said.

"I take it you know who he is?" John asked.

"Oh yes, I am a big fan of your blog. Meeting him face to face was certainly . . . unique. He's a very unusual man."

"That he is," John agreed. "Thank you for your understanding . . . He tends to . . . ." He almost said _make most people dislike him_ , but that sounded unkind, "I'm afraid he sometimes makes it easy for people to have no patience with him," he said regretfully.

She laughed softly. "I heard he threw a specimen jar at Jen Bailey." That was the first John had heard of that, and he was somewhat surprised when Scrivens added, "Good for him." She took her leave as Sherlock was taken back to the A&E.

=====

There was nothing to do now but wait. Sherlock started coming around after the second liter of fluids. John didn't have to guess why. "Get these things off my hands," he ordered. "I have to pee."

John removed the splints and the IV line, and capped off the catheter, leaving it in place for the time being. Sherlock was still groggy, but he resisted any attempts to assist him. John made sure to hand him a specimen container before he went into the loo, hoping he'd be able to manage it without being able to see what he was doing. "Let me know if you start to feel dizzy or faint," he warned.

"Bugger off," Sherlock dismissed him. _Getting back to normal, anyway._

Greg had gone to get them something to eat. He hadn't expected Sherlock to be awake when he came back, which was awkward since Sherlock was still not allowed to have anything. Surprisingly, when he smelled the food, he demanded they share.

"You're hungry?" John asked.

"Starving. Give me one of those sandwiches."

"No, not until we get the MRI results." John insisted, and reluctantly set his own food aside, Greg did likewise.

"Can I have a cigarette then?" Sherlock prodded.

"You're in hospital, mate . . ." Lestrade pointed out. "What do you think?"

"I think this is all bloody ridiculous. I feel _fine_. I want to go home."

"How are your eyes?" John asked, because Sherlock still wasn't looking at them when he spoke.

"I can see your jumper," Sherlock huffed. "It's hideous."

"What color is it?" Lestrade tested.

"Green," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade snorted. "Guess again."

"Blue?" When no one confirmed that, he tried again. "Red?"

"So do we go back to kindergarten now to learn our colors?" John laughed.

"It's not funny that I'm blind, John." Which was true, it wasn't, but Sherlock's attempt at deception was somehow reassuring.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I know it's not. Hopefully we'll find out what's going on with that soon. Doctor Jawadi is still trying to track down an eye specialist."

"Who?"

"Jawadi. Your doctor."

" _You're_ my doctor. I don't want anyone else."

Of course, Jawadi chose that exact moment to enter the cubicle. "We have the MRI results. The radiologist would like to speak with Mr. Holmes to discuss them."

Sherlock dropped onto his trolley and curled up facing away from them, pulling his blanket up to his chin. "Talk to John," he said.

"Usually we speak directly to the patient."

"I don't care. Talk to John," Sherlock muttered.

 _He's worried_ , John thought. He exchanged glances with Lestrade, who appeared to be thinking the same thing. "I'll stay with him," the DI said.

====

There were four people already in the consult room when John walked in behind Dr. Jawadi. The looks on their faces did not bode well. John's heart sank. The radiologist introduced herself as Doctor Helen Sandis. "What is it," John asked nervously. Most radiologists weren't medical doctors, so this meant that whatever they had found had needed a higher level of expertise to interpret than was usual.

The other person there introduced himself but John zoned out on his name after he said he was an oncologist. _So it_ was _cancer_. . . .

As if reading his mind, the man said, "This isn't cancer. I'm one hundred percent certain of that."

John felt his heart skip a beat. _Thank God._

"That's the good news," Sandis spoke. "The bad news is, we don't know what it is. These lesions . . . I've seen them before, but not like this, not to this extent."

"What are they?" To John's untrained eye, the magnified images looked like . . . _holes_.

She continued, "I've seen these on a smaller scale in people who have had body modification – specifically large piercings."

"Someone stabbed him with something?" John was incredulous. They didn't look like stab wounds to him.

"It's not just a penetration of the tissue," Sandis explained. "It's an excoriation. . ."

"What?!" John knew the meaning of the word, but not as it applied to any condition or medical procedure he was familiar with.

The oncologist – his name tag said ‘Kearney' - explained, "The tool that is used by body artists – it's not a mere needle, but a fine hollow tube that actually cuts a tunnel through the flesh. The size depends on the extent of the piercing desired."

John shook his head. Unlike many young men his age, Sherlock didn't have any tattoos or other type of body art, at least, not that John knew about, let alone elaborate piercings. He didn't even have pierced ears. He wanted to say Sherlock would never do anything like that, but then he remembered thinking the same thing when he'd caught Lestrade tossing Baker Street for drugs.

Kearney put that thought to an uneasy rest. "Whatever did this, though, was on a much larger scale. This was something fairly long and of substantial diameter."

"Long?" John questioned. He really had no idea what to think about any of this.

"Show him, Dr. Sandis," Kearney said.

The radiologist called up an image on the screen of most of Sherlock's body, from his head to his knees at least. Then, she tapped a few buttons and a second image was superimposed on it. Red lines, at least two dozen of them. "The internal lesions form straight lines with the external ones. . ."

John gasped. He didn't need her to finish. With the red lines superimposed on his body, Sherlock reminded him of a voodoo doll. Something had been pushed _through_ his body, several times.

"Whatever was used here," Sandis said, "Was at least a half meter long, and sharp enough to pierce bone."

John felt sick. "But . . . that's just not possible. Who would do such a thing? And why? How did he even survive that?"

Kearney shook his head. "I have no explanation. There doesn't appear to be any permanent injury. I'd expect to see evidence of pneumothorax, bowel perforation, cerebral edema . . . something . . . I mean, you just can't pierce someone's heart without consequences. It's absolutely not possible, and yet. . . "

"Who would even have the ability to do that?" John shuddered.

"Apparently someone does, and did," Doctor Millham interjected. "It must have been excruciating."

"Which might explain why he can't remember it," Jawadi suggested.

John knew what he was suggesting. The mind often protected itself from intense trauma by denying its existence. Had Sherlock been so traumatized that he'd repressed the memory of the experience?

"This just can't be what happened," John shook his head.

Surprisingly, Doctor Sandis agreed. "I'm going to refer these images for a second opinion. I have never seen anything like this. I don't know why this patient is still alive, let alone apparently healthy."

"We should probably do a barium swallow to make sure the GI tract isn't compromised. I see no evidence, but I also don't see how it could not be. Has he had anything to eat?"

"No," Jawadi said. "I didn't think it advisable until we knew what we were dealing with."

"Good . . . I'll schedule it right away. If there is a problem, it can't wait." Kearney said.

John was literally reeling when he left the room. What was he going to say to Sherlock?


	6. Chapter 6

He ended up telling him nothing, just that the MRI results were normal but they wanted to do one more test just to be sure.

Surprisingly, Sherlock bought that, and didn't press John for more details. Did he even want to know what had happened? Or did he actually know and not want to talk about it? John decided to leave it be for the time being. Sherlock was calm, and being reasonably cooperative, so if the barium test results were normal, the only concern left would be his eyes. And though that was a _major_ concern, he would not have to stay in hospital.

John explained what the barium swallow would involve.

Sherlock was not happy.

"Dr. Jawadi and I both feel it's a necessary precaution."

"Well, I do not. I told you, I'm not sick."

"No, but something is not right. You know that. We need to rule certain things out, specifically make sure you don't have any internal damage that could result in a nasty case of peritonitis. Do you know what that is?"

"Of course I know what that is. Piss off, John, I'm _fine_."

"No, I won't ‘piss off.' Stop being a dick. It's not that bad. You just drink the stuff and then they take the pictures."

"They already took pictures, with the MRI."

"Yes, they did . . . but this test will show if there are any perforations or other compromise to your digestive tract. If it's all fine, you can have something to eat."

"I'm sure the entire procedure is disgusting."

"But you'll do it, anyway, right?" He put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder that was promptly shrugged off. "I'll take that as a ‘yes.'"

"Piss. Off." Sherlock repeated, then covered himself with his blanket and turned away.

=====

"I feel a bit like a schoolyard bully," John confessed to Lestrade in the hallway outside the cubicle. "He can't leave on his own – even if he could see, he has no means of summoning transportation or paying for it. He's at our mercy and he knows it."

"Word of advice," Lestrade offered, "tread lightly. If you push him too far, there will be a scene and it will be ugly. I've seen it happen." The DI then decided he should probably arrange to have all of Sherlock's test results transmitted to him. There were more than enough suspicions to warrant a police investigation. He left to do that while John waited with Sherlock.

At least Dr. Jawadi had good news. They had managed to find the hospital's ophthalmologist who was intrigued by Sherlock's case enough that he'd agreed to attend even though it was outside of normal working hours. "He should be here in about an hour. The barium swallow is scheduled 10 minutes from now, so with luck, you should be all sorted and out of here in a couple of hours.

That news lightened Sherlock's mood somewhat. Unfortunately it was brief. He didn't protest going back to the imaging lab, but he wanted to walk there. John saw no problem with that, but the hospital had to be concerned for safety. They would not allow a blind patient who had recently been sedated to wander their corridors, so a wheelchair was brought for him. By Jen Bailey. John sighed inwardly when he saw her, and groaned outwardly when Sherlock refused to sit in the chair.

"Stop being such a big baby," Bailey told him.

Sherlock turned on her. "You clearly have the interpersonal relationship skills of a toadstool. You want to be a real doctor, but mummy is a drunken sot and daddy is nowhere to be found, so you have to work at this instead until you can find some way to make your _impossible dream_ happen. You hate your job and you hate your patients, and you should be working at something else – I suggest a refuse collector would be more to your liking." Apparently, the irony of noting that Bailey lacked ‘people skills' was lost on Sherlock.

Bailey was not intimidated. "Are you done?"

"No. I also don't like you."

Bailey didn't skip a beat. "I don't like you, either."

Sherlock blinked. "Really? Why not?"

"Because you are obnoxious and you annoy me."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment, then said. "Well, all right then."

"All right then," Bailey agreed.

Sherlock got into the chair.

John had found the entire exchange somewhat shocking, but Lestrade was trying not to laugh. Just to be on the safe side, John offered to push the wheelchair.

"Oh, and my dog does _not_ have cancer. I'm picking him up at the vet tomorrow morning, and you were a total arse to say that," Bailey lectured before she left.

=====

John expected an argument or some other lack of cooperation from Sherlock when he was handed the plastic bottle of barium sulfate. He was prepared to use the highly persuasive argument that if Sherlock didn't _drink_ it, it could always be administered by _other_ means that he would undoubtedly not enjoy. Of course, Sherlock could refuse either, but he hated mysteries and in truth, he wanted this one to be over and done with.

Sherlock had been given a choice of flavors and had picked banana.

He sniffed it, then took a tentative sip. John was braced for a negative reaction, so he was left without an adequate comment when Sherlock promptly drank the entire bottle. . It was probably too late to tell Sherlock that the concoction made some people nauseated. "Uh . . . that was good," he stammered, as Sherlock passed him the empty bottle, which he tossed into the bin.

"No, it was horrid, but my blood sugar is in the Mariana Trench by now and I am quite possibly dying of starvation, and you _don't care_ , so I have been reduced to this." 

"You've been on a glucose drip. I'm sure your blood sugar is fine, but I can test it again if you'd like," John threatened.

Sherlock folded his arms so his fingertips were well-protected. "No, thank you."

"If this test shows everything is okay, I'm sure they'll let you have something. I have to say, this is new – you begging for food."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. "It is rather odd, isn't it?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know."

"Sherlock, you can't do this kind of thing, it's not . . ."

"No, what I mean is, I don't remember. Not because it's been that long . . . I don't remember because . . . I just don't. What day is this?"

"Sunday."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, the last thing I remember was us watching that irritating _Titanic_ movie."

That had been the previous Sunday, John thought with some alarm. He hadn't left for Harry's until Thursday afternoon. Sherlock had forgotten an entire week, four days of which John had been with him.

"Lestrade is pretty sure someone drugged you. I think he's right."

"Like I haven't been drugged before," Sherlock scoffed. "I may lose a couple of hours, but not days."

"Obviously, it wasn't a ‘normal' drug, if there is such a thing."

The discussion was cut short when the technician called Sherlock in for the x-ray. John didn't get up, and Sherlock looked vaguely alarmed.

"John?"

"Do you need me to come with you?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled. "I wouldn't need you if I could _see_ , but I _can't_ , so obviously . . ."

So, John went into the room with the x-ray machine. There was a tilting table that Sherlock would have to be strapped onto. He carefully explained to him what was happening and why, but once the technician was ready he had to leave so as not to be exposed. The technician assured them would only take a couple of minutes, and John just had to trust that all would go well.

Jawadi found John in the waiting area and sat down next to him with tablet displaying Sherlock's MRI results. "I wanted to talk to you . . . as his physician . . . these lesions," he pointed to one of the ‘holes', "I think they should be biopsied."

John cringed at that. He knew the answer but asked anyway. "What would that involve?"

"Well, we would have to completely excise one, and all of the surrounding tissue. It's a fairly simple procedure."

Sure, John thought. One that will require a local anesthetic and probably stitches to close the wound. It likely wouldn't cause an excessive amount of pain, but it would still hurt.

"We'll need his consent, of course," Jawadi said, implying that John should be the one to ask for it.

John remembered what Lestrade had said. Sherlock was doing reasonably fine so far, but he was likely reaching his limits. "I'll ask him, but if he says ‘no' that's the end of it. If they look like they aren't healing, we can always do it later . . ."

"That's the thing," Jawadi said. They _are_ healing. Far more rapidly than they should."

John looked at him questioningly. Jawadi showed him an overlay of the two MRI scans, and John saw it instantly. "There was a minute, but detectable decrease in their size in just the few minutes between the two scans. At this rate, they will disappear in a few hours."

"But that's a good thing, right?"

"Yes, but a biopsy might give us some information on what they are, what caused them, and why they are healing so rapidly – before they are gone."


	7. Chapter 7

The situation began to unravel when the ophthalmologist, a Dr. Payson, examined Sherlock's eyes. He had the skull portion of the MRI scan, and had detected what no one else had noticed because they had not been looking for it.

"This is most unusual," he said, pointing to a thin, almost invisible outline on a cross-section of the corneas. "There is something covering his eyes."

John's first mental image was of a blindfold, but that was ridiculous – Sherlock's eyes looked normal. But then he remembered the odd distortion when he'd looked into them, and he realized what Payson was getting at. He could also see it on the MRI, now that it had been pointed out.

"What is that?" he said, confused.

Payson was looking into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was having a very difficult time not turning his head away from the blinding light of the ophthalmoscope. John put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.'

"What, John? What does it look like?" he asked.

"It's . . . it appears to be some sort of contact lens," Payson explained, "but it covers the entire sclera. I also could possibly be some kind of fungal growth, but it looks too evenly distributed and there doesn't seem to be any inflammation. Fungal infections of the eye are also pretty rare, but I don't know what to make of . . . wait a minute . . . "

"What?!" Sherlock demanded.

Payson didn't answer, but switched to an ultraviolet light. He invited John to have a look. "Do you see what I see?"

"What, damn you!" Sherlock was frustrated. Payson wasn't helping by being more interested in his eyes than in him.

John touched Sherlock's shoulder. "It looks like some kind of _coating_ , Sherlock. Did someone put something in your eyes?"

"Don't you think I would have _told you_ that if I remembered? Why is everyone here such an IDIOT?"

Payson looked shocked.

"Calm down, Sherlock," John said gently and then gave Payson an apologetic shrug.

Payson continued his examination. "It looks like natural tear production is wearing it off, whatever it is. We can probably help it along by irrigating his eyes with normal saline."

"What does that mean? What are you going to do?" Sherlock demanded, and was ignored.

"I'll get that set up. Not sure it will work, but it's worth a try."

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice much softer this time.

Payson had gone from the cubicle.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John assured him. "They are going to use some saline to try to wash that stuff off your eyes. It looks like it's coming off on its own, but maybe we can help the process along this way."

John had misgivings. Ocular irrigation wasn't painful in the usual sense, but it was often stressful for the patient, and of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, simply telling him to calm down wasn't going to make it happen. This was not going to be fun.

While they were waiting, Dr. Jawadi came by with the results of the barium test. As with the MRI, Sherlock didn't want to hear it. He ordered Jawadi to talk to John and then told him to get out. Jawadi was nonplussed by Sherlock's rudeness – he hadn't completely let go of his initial assessment of his mental health.

When they were in the hallway, Jawadi looked more confused than concerned. "First of all, he's fine. No perforations or other compromise, but . . ."

"What?" John said.

"His digestive tract is completely empty – almost as if it was flushed out."

"He's not a big eater," John pointed out, but he knew full well what Jawadi was saying. It would have taken at least 3 days of absolutely nothing to eat to reach that point. Sherlock often avoided tucking into a regular meal when he was ‘working,' but he didn't fast.  He'd grab a handful of biscuits, a packet of crisps or a piece of fruit every few hours.

"How long was he missing?" Jawadi asked.

"I don't know," John confessed, "but I saw him Thursday afternoon." Something else had been bothering John – Sherlock was clean-shaven – no appreciable beard stubble at all. His hair was clean and he certainly didn't smell as if he hadn't bathed for days. Either someone had cleaned him up before dumping him there, or he'd actually only been missing less than 24 hours, which would make having no food in him more difficult to explain. What the hell had been done to him?

"Also, his tox screens show no indication of any illegal substances, but there was trace amounts of something similar to midazolam . . . "

"Shit," John muttered, knowing that one particular effect of that drug was that it prevented memories from forming.

"You don't know who might have prescribed that?" Jawadi asked.

John didn't doubt that Sherlock could have probably got his hands on some on his own, but he didn't believe that's what had occurred. "No, no idea," he replied.

He thanked Dr. Jawadi after agreeing it might be a good idea for Sherlock to get some counseling. Sherlock wouldn't of course, but John would still suggest it. It might help him remember something – anything.

A male nurse came in shortly after and had Sherlock lie flat on his back. He then put a waterproof drape over his shoulders and rolled towels on either side of his head. John was a bit annoyed that no one was bothering to explain to Sherlock exactly what was going to happen, so he did.

"I'm afraid there is going to be water everywhere, Sherlock. In your hair and probably in your ears and maybe your nose if you don't hold still."

"Lovely," Sherlock huffed.

"They will put drops in your eyes to numb them, but the longer it takes, the less effective they will be, so there might be some discomfort."

"Define ‘discomfort,'" Sherlock said impatiently.

"Well, he's going to be squirting a jet of water onto your eye. Take it from there."

Payson made a reappearance at that moment with the saline and an absolutely gigantic syringe. John was glad Sherlock couldn't see it, because he was a doctor and the size of the thing scared _him_ a little. He also had a lid retractor. Definitely not fun. Sherlock's instinct would be to close his eyes, but he wouldn't be able to. John braced for the worst. He put up the rails on the trolley and put Sherlock's hands on them. "Hold on to these," he told him and then cautioned, "Think of it as biting a bullet."

Wrong thing to say – for the first time, Sherlock looked apprehensive. He gripped the rails tightly when the lid retractor was placed. When the eye drops were put in he tried to blink them away but he couldn't so he tried raising his head. The nurse responded by pushing his head down and holding it there. Sherlock let out a small gasp of pain.

"He has an injury on his forehead," John scolded the nurse, "Be careful with him."

The nurse was clearly not pleased at being admonished, but he loosened his grip a little, and Sherlock didn't fight him. A small basin was placed next to Sherlock's head which would hopefully catch most of the water.

Unfortunately, whatever was coating his eyes also kept the drops from working as they should. When the first jet of water hit him, Sherlock gasped. "Stop!" he demanded and tried to push the syringe away.

Payson nodded at the nurse who promptly velcroed Sherlock's hands to the trolley rails. "Wait a minute, here . . . " John tried to protest.

Payson looked at him as if he were insignificant. "It's really a bit crowded in here, Mr. Watson," – John noted that his failure to address him as "doctor" was likely deliberate – "Perhaps you should wait outside."

"John!" Sherlock objected. It did no good, Payson managed to position himself so that he was between John and the trolley, and then mercilessly began to flush Sherlock's right eye with the saline. He didn't even realize that Sherlock was clearly in the first stages of a panic attack.

"He's hyperventilating," John said, and was ignored, so he tried to reach the patient. "Sherlock, slow your breathing down, you're going to pass out." Sherlock didn't even appear to hear him.

It was a very bad time for Jen Bailey to show up with extra towels. She pushed past John and immediately noticed Sherlock's distress. She looked at Payson. "Christ on a scone!" she snapped at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Payson stopped in his tracks, very obviously displeased at Bailey's lack of respect. "You may leave now, thank you for the towels."

Bailey didn't leave, which John knew made Sherlock more anxious than he already was because he didn't like her. Instead, she bent down next to his ear and said, "I can hold my breath longer than you can."

Sherlock was already scowling, but that got his attention and his expression changed slightly. "No . . . you . . . can't."

"I can hold my breath for seven minutes," Bailey boasted.

" _No one_ . . . can do . . . that," Sherlock panted, then shouted, "Bloody HELL!" as another jet of water hit his open eye.

"Try me."

"I can't . . . see." Sherlock was gasping for breath. "I . . . won't know . . . if you . . . _cheat_."

She placed her wrist where he could feel it. "Take my pulse. It will keep getting faster the longer I go without breathing." Sherlock grabbed her wrist and put his fingers on her pulse point. "First one to breathe, loses," she said.

"Wait a minute," John objected. "This isn't a contest . . . "

"Shut up, John," Sherlock snapped. "On three . . . then . . . John . . . you count."

John definitely had his misgivings but he counted. On ‘three,' Bailey took a deep breath and Sherlock stopped hyperventilating, which was bloody brilliant.

Remarkably, both of them held their breath for over a minute. John began to get worried. "Sherlock . . . you need to breathe . . ." he urged.

But Sherlock was in some kind of zone at that point so John's opinion went unacknowledged.

Payson didn't seem at all concerned. "There we are," he said triumphantly as the last of the coating slid from Sherlock's eye into the basin next to his head. Payson fished it out with a forceps and placed it in a sample tube. "I'm going to have that analyzed to find out what on earth it is." When he placed a piece of gauze on Sherlock's eye to mop up the remaining saline, Sherlock took a deep breath.

Bailey disengaged her wrist and also inhaled deeply. On the exhale, she whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Loser."

"Don't do the other eye," Sherlock pleaded. "I only need one to see." The other would eventually recover on its own, but Payson didn't want to hear any of it, and was preparing to force the other eye open with the retractor when Bailey removed the restraints.

"Now see here!" Payson objected, but it was too late.

Sherlock sat up, his hair dripping and his gown soaked despite the precautions. He rubbed his eyes and blinked a couple of times as he looked around him. His eyes settled on John. "Get my clothes. We're leaving."

The biopsy Jawadi had suggested was clearly out of the question, so John didn't even mention it. Sherlock had had enough.

Lestrade had returned by then, and John waited in the hallway with him as Sherlock got dressed. He'd had the foresight to make a video of the CCTV footage as he watched it, but the footage itself was grainy and the video was somewhat out of focus. It revealed nothing of the identity of whoever had left Sherlock there.


	8. Chapter 8

Nurse Scrivens showed up as Sherlock was putting his shoes on. He gave her a nasty look, because never having actually seen her before he didn't know who she was. She had two small cartons of yogurt.

"They said it was all right for you to have something to eat," she said. "I hope you like strawberry."

Sherlock looked reasonably contrite for his stroppy attitude when he recognized her voice. He took the yogurt, along with the plastic spoon she'd brought.

"So they are letting you go home? I trust all was fine?"

"I don't know if it is or not," Sherlock grumbled. "But I'm leaving. I don't like it here."

Scrivens laughed. "Few people do. . . Well, good luck to you, then." She turned to leave.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, so softly John didn't think Scrivens had heard.

But she winked at John on her way out and said, "You're welcome, Mr. Holmes. It was interesting."

Sherlock practically inhaled the yogurt while they waited for Lestrade to bring his car around. He really _was_ hungry.

Lestrade had left his jacket for Sherlock, informing John that the outside temperature had dropped almost 6 degrees since they had arrived.  The jacket was much too large, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by that. As soon as he had it on, he began to go through the pockets and was rewarded for his efforts with a packet of Wine Gums that he also ate. John suspected without even chewing them first.

As they were heading for the exit, Jen Bailey was sobbing into her phone as Sherlock walked past. Without a word, he snatched it from her hand leaving her stunned speechless. Without breaking stride, he placed the phone to his ear. "Feel free to disregard this entire conversation. Tomorrow, her dog's vet will ask her to lunch and by this time next week, she will have forgotten you ever existed. Oh, and I suggest you stop ignoring the guy from IT who is always ‘fixing' your computer. I think you know why." With that, he broke the connection, and tossed the phone over his shoulder where it landed neatly in the pocket of Bailey's scrubs (which had to have purely been an accident, but no one would ever hear that from Sherlock).

Sherlock asked to stop for chips on the drive home, which he liberally doused with a dozen ketchup packets in the car even though Greg asked him not to. After eating them, he promptly fell asleep.

"You know . . . " Lestrade said hesitantly, when they were about 10 minutes from the flat. "Sherlock's phone is somewhere in the woods near Warminster."

"How do you know that?" John asked.

"We . . . uh . . . were able to track it."

"'We' meaning Scotland Yard or Mycroft?"

Greg sighed. "I think you know the answer to that. Anyway, it's just . . . you know that place has a reputation, right?"

John snorted. "Yeah, the UK's version of Area 51."

"Well?" Lestrade said expectantly.

"Well what?"

"Do you think . . . I mean, other people have had experiences . . . disappearances, missing time and such . . . "

"Greg," John said patiently, "are you trying to say you think Sherlock was abducted by aliens?" He was laughing by the time he ended the sentence.

Lestrade gave him a stern look. "Do you think what happened to him is in any way _funny_?"

That shut John up. Lestrade was right. What had happened to Sherlock was nothing short of preposterous. They couldn't rule out any possibility no matter how absurd, but he still wasn't willing to go in _that_ direction. He tried to change the subject. "Don't you think it's odd that we haven't heard anything from Mycroft since he sent us that text?"

Lestrade snorted. "If anyone knows the truth about whatever it is goes on at Warminster, it would be him, wouldn't it?"

John didn't answer that. Lestrade was right. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

=====

Sherlock was exhausted. John wondered how long it had been since he'd really slept. As soon as they were in the flat, he flopped down on the couch. John went to make tea and see if there was anything to fix for supper, since it was already after 5 pm. He found some pasta and a 4-pack of breaded chicken steaks from Tesco which he thought were a bit disgusting, but Sherlock liked them. He wouldn't have to leave to get anything, although they could always order takeaway, he supposed.

He brought the tea, and after a couple of sips, Sherlock announced that he was going to shower and then throw away everything he was wearing. John questioned that – there was nothing wrong with the clothes he had on. They weren't dirty or torn, and, they were expensive. "Are you sure you really want to do that?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a bin liner, then headed for the shower. A few minutes later, he tossed the bag out and John heard the water running. He gathered up the bag – he'd donate the clothing to charity rather than see it tossed in the bin, but first, he'd see if Lestrade thought there might be useful evidence on the discarded garments.

He was concerned a few minutes later to hear the sound of retching coming from loo. While it was possible that Sherlock had picked up some kind of stomach bug in the A&E, or was having a delayed reaction to the sedative he'd been given, it was more likely that he was so stressed out that it was making him physically ill.

He tapped on the door. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Go away! Leave me alone!"

John was fairly used to Sherlock's stroppy behavior, but he still worried. Eventually, the water stopped running. He expected Sherlock to emerge directly but he didn't. He became increasingly apprehensive after several minutes passed. There was no lock on the door to the loo. He'd knock again, and if he wasn't happy with the response, he'd just let himself in.

His tap on the door was met with silence. Sherlock didn't yell at him, or open the door. There was nothing, and that worried John. "Sherlock? I'm coming in . . . ." he informed him, and then did so.

The bathroom light was off. There was only the faint glow from a small plug-in wall light. Sherlock had donned his pyjamas, but he was on the floor in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head resting on them. His eyes were closed, but he was mumbling to himself so he wasn't asleep. He was shaking as if he had chills, and he didn't seem to notice John was even there. This was not good. "Sherlock?" he said softly.

"Go away."

John knelt beside him. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Just go away, John. Please."

John reluctantly left, but he returned with the duvet from Sherlock's bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He felt his forehead – no fever, he was glad to note. "I'll leave you here for a while," he said, "but then this stops. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, although if John had blinked at the wrong time, he would have missed it.

John returned to his chair and sat there quietly, wondering if he should call someone, and if so, who? He knew Sherlock had a prescription for anti-anxiety meds – there was an old prescription bottle in the kitchen drawer full of tiny ball bearings - but the date on the label was from six years ago. He had never seen him take anything, though, and he wasn't about to look through his room to see if he'd had it filled recently. Sherlock didn't appreciate having his things gone through, and rightfully so. Besides, Sherlock was no doubt capable of deciding for himself if he needed them. He would give him an hour or so to sort himself out, and then go from there.

In the meantime, he started the water boiling for the pasta. There was no way he was going to leave the flat now.

He checked on Sherlock every fifteen minutes. The third time he did so, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him.

"Any better now?" he asked gently.

Sherlock nodded. John didn't wait for further comment. He removed the duvet and worked his arms under Sherlock's and lifted him up. Sherlock didn't offer any resistance, so it wasn't difficult. Once he was on his feet, Sherlock picked up the duvet, walked past John and returned to sit on the couch where he wrapped himself up with it.

"Do you think you could eat something?" John asked.

To his great relief, Sherlock nodded.

He tossed the pasta with butter and salt, and then cut the chicken into smaller than bite-size pieces. When he set the plate before Sherlock, he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and said, "What am I? Two? I don't need my food cut up."

"I thought it might go down a bit easier that way," John said casually, although he was actually hoping the smaller pieces would stay down long enough to be digested.

Sherlock shrugged. He made no comment on the bland pasta, but he ate a good portion of it. Afterwards, they watched a movie. John let Sherlock pick, which was an elaborate affair that involved some internet searches on John's phone. The movie he picked was _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_. 

John could have sworn there was a smirk on his face when he hit ‘play.'


	9. Chapter 9

John slept on the couch as a precaution, but the night passed uneventfully. John had rounds at the clinic that morning and Sherlock was still asleep when he left. He wrote a note for him to call if he needed anything, but then remembered Sherlock no longer had his phone. He changed the note to say he'd be back as soon as he could, and to have Mrs. Hudson call him if he was needed.

He received a call from a furious Lestrade at around 11:00. All of Sherlock's samples – blood, urine, that stuff they took out of his eye – as well as his MRI scan and x-rays had all mysteriously disappeared or been deleted from the system, along with the CCTV footage of Sherlock being dumped in front of the hospital. "Who would do that?" he fumed.

"I can think of one person," John shot back. He didn't know how deeply Mycroft was involved, but involved he most certainly was. Someone had taken care of Sherlock before he'd been left at the A&E. Someone had cleaned him up, either out of concern or to destroy any evidence that might have been on him. He knew Mycroft cared about Sherlock in his own way, but John wouldn't put the latter past him. The man had a perverted sense of priority. 

At least Sherlock hadn't been subjected to the biopsy. No doubt the results of that would have disappeared, too.

"Now, even if Sherlock remembers what happened, he has no proof," Lestrade continued. "That's just bloody not fair."

John had to agree, but they were dealing with forces way more powerful than New Scotland Yard. Greg knew that also, which was one reason he was so angry. Still, there was nothing to be done. They had no idea what had become of the samples and test results. There was probably no longer any record of Sherlock even being in the A&E. People there would remember him, of course, but they could be threatened or paid off.

They would just have to leave it be, for now.

John returned to the flat around 1:00, having stopped to pick up some groceries. He staggered in weighted down with plastic sacks to find Sherlock lying on the couch with his eyes fixed on a brand new phone. He had apparently walked down the street to the nearby KFC because there was a distinctive red-and-white striped box on the coffee table. It was just a small snack box, but it was empty.

He noticed Sherlock's coat hanging on the door in a dry cleaner bag. "Where did that coat come from?" he asked. He assumed it had gone missing along with Sherlock.

"Don't know. Don't care," Sherlock muttered. John thought it very odd that the coat had somehow just appeared, but he didn't want to press the issue.

As he was putting the groceries away, Sherlock called to him from the couch.

"Are there biscuits?"

"You want biscuits? You just had lunch."

"I'm convalescing from being _abducted by aliens_. I need to keep up my strength."

John pulled up short at the 'abducted by aliens' comment. He pulled a packet of Ginger Nuts out of the shopping bag and took them to Sherlock.

"So, you weren't asleep in the car. You heard what Greg said."

"Of course I wasn't asleep," he replied, not taking his eyes from the phone. "I just wanted you to talk about me. I admit, I wasn't expecting that particular conclusion, even from him."

John thought it was as good a time as any to broach the issue that had been on his mind. "Sherlock . . . perhaps it would be helpful if you were to discuss . . . whatever happened . . . with . . . someone."

"I already discussed it with you, John. And with several thousand doctors yesterday. I'm in the process of deleting the entire sordid episode."

"Sherlock, that's not healthy . . . "

Sherlock glared at him. "It is for me. I don't want to remember. I refuse to."

"You could be suffering from PTSD, you know."

"There is no _Post_ or _Stress_ or _Disorder_ without the _Traumatic_ , and I intend to completely eradicate the _Traumatic_. So, end of story."

"But perhaps a therapist . . ."

"End. Of. Story."

John was about to argue further when his phone signaled that he had a text message. He pulled it out of his pocket and read it .

_Now go make me tea. - SH_

EPILOGUE

"You assured me that you wouldn't hurt him," Mycroft Holmes said sternly, still livid that he'd been forced to abandon his blind, drugged, traumatized, _tortured_ little brother to strangers because of the man he was speaking to, the man who now looked at him with a satisfied smirk that he wanted to slap - no _punch_ \- off his face.

"I said I wouldn't _harm_ him," the other man replied dismissively. "It's amazing what the human body can endure without sustaining any actual damage. He simply failed to respond to the precautionary measures as expected. He shouldn't have even been _aware_ of what was happening. It doesn't matter, if he has any memory of it at all, it won't be of anything useful. Nevertheless . . . the other one . . . will provide enhancements that will substantially increase the tolerance level for pain. The Holmes children have served the purpose well indeed."

The memory of his younger brother's screams of agony and terror tore at Mycroft's soul. It brought back buried memories that Sherlock had long forgotten but he had not and never would. He had been told Sherlock would not be aware, would not remember, but then Sherlock had escaped and it had fallen on Mycroft to find him and make sure he was someplace safe, and by now, Greg Lestrade and/or John Watson would have most certainly guessed he was involved, even though they would never be able to prove it.

"Sherlock must never know he was in any way a part of this . . . negotiation," Mycroft said calmly, although on the inside, he fumed, knowing he was not currently in a position to address what had been done. It was, to use the popular plebeian phraseology, what it was. He didn't have to like it, though.

"Besides," the other man spoke again. "You have assured your brother's immortality . . . and some of your own as well. When the enhancements have been achieved, the end product will have your cunning . . . your organizational skills . . . your political acumen . . . "

"Stop calling it a ‘product.'"

The other man laughed. "You object, yet you refer to my future accomplishment as ‘it.'"

Mycroft didn't want to hear any more. He was not a man who let guilt interfere with the machinations of his unquestionably superior mind, but he did have some standards. "I trust you have what you wanted. I'll be taking my leave now. I fully expect to never hear from you again, and if you go near my brother for any reason, you won't be able to hide from me." And without waiting for a response, he walked out.

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that," the other man laughed softly as the door closed.

Arik Noonien Singh neatly arranged the bio-canes in the liquid nitrogen storage container. There were samples of everything, every organ, bone, marrow, skin, hair, nerve tissue. There was also a liter of blood, filtered so it was pure. The organs would be modified, enhanced – augmented – until the reproduction was beyond the pinnacle of what nature would ever achieve. The result would be a biotechnical masterpiece – a composite of all of the remarkable Holmes children, although it would in its basic essence be the younger brother. Physically beautiful, healthy, strong, a genius. There was a bit of neurodiversity there, but that could easily be tweaked into an advantage - into a steadfast resolve to do what must be done without the hindrance of sentimentality or empathy.

He was the tenth specimen, each equally incredible in its own regard. Singh had opted to name them rather than number them. Numbers were so impersonal, weren't they? He'd started with Alexander, then Bonaparte, then Galileo . . . naming them in the order of the Greek alphabet, which in this case, suited the cause admirably.

Sample number 10 was K. _Delightful_ how there existed the fitting, perfect designation for this one who would be a leader . . . a _conqueror_. It was absolutely too perfect! He placed the canister with the others and spoke to it as if it was already the living, extraordinary being it would become. "I believe we shall call you . . . Khan."

END


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